


come into my kitchen

by ragesyndrome



Series: safehouse [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Communication, Cooking, First Dates, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, biracial jonathan sims, gratuitous eldritch beholding, the eye is fond of martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragesyndrome/pseuds/ragesyndrome
Summary: Yall know that Jenny Slate quote uhhh.“I am supposed to be touched. I can’t wait to find the person who will come into the kitchen just to smell my neck and get behind me and hug me and breathe me in and make me turn around and make me kiss his face and put my hands in his hair even with my soapy dishwater drips. I am a lovely woman. Who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me?”Anyway I think about that constantly and I went a little insane about it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: safehouse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988704
Comments: 60
Kudos: 310





	come into my kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven’t read my other fic “giving you all my (giving you all my love)” I would recommend hitting that one first, it basically covers the same events as the first half of this one but from Jon’s perspective. I did try to write this one in a way that would make sense as a stand-alone, though, so if you prefer that it should be fine.  
> CW:  
> \- A lot of vague reference to past trauma but nothing rlly explicit  
> \- A lot of insecurity / self-doubt  
> \- Mentions of sex but nothing happens  
> \- Mention of alcoholism

The train ride had been long, and it also had not. Martin wasn’t entirely sure he trusted his sense of time these days, his sense of time for… probably the last eight months? Or year? That sounded about right. One minute everyone was rushing off to try to save the world and Martin was forced to stay behind and then, and then….

Well. The fog had eased the pain. Not in a good way, not like letting it out so much as holding it deep inside him, and instead removing his sense of self from the equation. You couldn’t really  _ feel _ grief in all its grisly, wracking crushing horror if you weren’t really immersed in your own skin. It was still there, oh god it had indeed still been there.

Jon’s hands were so small. That was one of the first things Martin had noticed, coming back to himself. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed these things before, he’d been taking stock of these little details since pretty much day one. But. To feel them was another thing entirely. Cupped to his face, warm and gentle in a way that had seemed like a blazing fire at the time, when Martin was so far away in himself in all the cold and mist. It had been nearly unbearable to be touched with such love, to be yanked into the present. An anchor pulling him back to himself, not by a rope but by a thread, and, and… Martin was losing the metaphor. Something something about the red string of fate. Something he might write down at some point, if he could get himself to focus on it.

So. He had come back to Jon. Jon had called for him and, of course he had answered.

So the escape. Martin didn’t live far from the Institute, closer than Jon at least (he assumed this, but when he stopped to think about it, he wasn’t sure Jon had been living anywhere outside the Archives since he awoke). In any case, Jon didn’t want to stop anywhere to collect his own things, so Martin had packed as quickly as possible without knowing exactly what he was packing  _ for. _ On an impulse, he had yanked his old green jumper from the bottom of the drawer and stuffed it into his bag. It didn’t fit anymore, he’d shrunk it some months ago and had been meaning to donate the thing, but, but. The color would look so lovely on Jon, wouldn’t it? Wishful thinking this whole time, really, but now, it suddenly sounded very reasonable and logical, Jon wasn’t stopping for any of his clothes, perhaps he would get cold. A very sound decision that had nothing to do with, with Martin’s  _ feelings _ .

And to be honest, Martin could barely even concentrate on all of that with, you know, everything else. So. Jon had thrown himself into danger  _ again _ and come to  _ find _ him and had clasped his small and wonderful hands to Martin’s face and begged  _ Look at me _ and yeah it was just a normal day at the office really, just on the run from mortal terror as usual. Just watching the platform protectively while Jon bought their tickets and huddling together on the quietest corner of the train they could find, and, and Jon was shaking and he was so  _ small _ and looked so  _ exhausted _ but his grip in Martin’s hand never loosened.

Grocery shopping had been surreal. Some time before they’d gotten off the train, Martin had suggested they come up with a shopping list, Jon had agreed, and then they’d both stared and come up with nothing. Martin knew his own brain was deeply fried by that hour and he couldn’t imagine Jon was any better rested than he. The market was underwhelming compared to London stores, but honestly it was a relief just to get through it quickly. Some tea and milk, ready-made meals and cereal and bread. Toiletries for Jon, et cetera. They stayed close, too close to be really comfortable for such an errand, Martin having a hard time pushing the little cart around while simultaneously holding Jon’s hand, hips bumping into each other around the corners. They got some looks, no one particularly hostile but definitely some curious. Martin should have been embarrassed, should’ve been overwhelmed by Jon’s skin constantly touching his and  _ in public _ no less, but, well. It had been a very long fucking day.

They eventually got to Daisy’s safehouse, which turned out to be a little cottage up in the hillside. The walk up the little mountain might’ve been a nice one, if there’d been more daylight, and if they weren’t already so tired, and probably if they were in better shape. From the road Martin could see fuzzy brown specks far away in the green, which he thought were probably Highland cows and he was definitely going to have to check that out sometime.

It was dark by the time they got in, and a cold settling into Martin’s bones that was probably at least forty percent due to perfectly natural weather reasons. Still, it reminded him of the Lonely a little too much, the heavy weight of chill air pressing his joints uncomfortably. There was a fireplace, which was going to be difficult to maintain, but luckily there was a working heating system as well, even if it looked about fifty years old. Jon said something about taking stock of the place, which as far as Martin could tell looked like drifting into each room and gazing wearily about without really looking at anything. Which was fine. Martin was in no position to talk.

There was only one bed, which frankly Martin had not even thought to consider the entire journey there. It wasn’t a  _ large _ bed, but, it would do. While Jon kept checking the rest of the house, Martin set about unpacking a few things, not at all in the mood to put everything away. Some clothes to sleep in, both for him and for Jon, and he was staunchly not fantasizing about the implications of that. Of Jon snuggled up in one of Martin’s shirts and smelling like him by morning and… Yes, those were exactly the thoughts Martin was not entertaining at the moment.

“You should take the bed,” said Jon, apparently having wandered back in. Martin paused mid-unfolding, looked at Jon, who was leaning bodily into the door frame like its support was the only thing keeping him alive. Martin contemplated tossing a shirt at him, then feared if he did that Jon would fall backwards and crack his skull open. It really did not look like it would take much to hurt him right now, and a sharp, ice cold pang speared Martin’s chest at the thought.

“There’s enough room for both of us,” he pointed out carefully, feeling his own eyebrows raise in that way that said  _ I love you but my fucking god you are insufferable _ , if someone were to know him well enough to read all that. Jon hesitated for a long moment and Martin was forced to consider how far he was willing to push him, because yes, it was ridiculous for Jon to go back downstairs and subject himself to the cruelty of a couch from the seventies but also,  _ also _ , was it okay for Martin to all but demand Jon sleep next to him?

After all, he was fairly certain he knew by now how both of them felt about each other, but they hadn’t  _ talked _ about it. Martin had felt the full force of Jon’s love for him as it shattered the Lonely and, yeah, it was a lot, it was intense and romantic and  _ hot _ and pretty much more than Martin ever expected to receive in real life, but. Much as he hated his own insecurity and doubt, it was there.

Before he could go much deeper down that rabbit hole, however, Jon shrugged in assent and started to clamber into the bed. He looked like he was about to pass out, day clothes and shoes and all, and it took all of Martin’s willpower to simply hand him a shirt and some flannel pants and leave him to it. He left to brush his teeth and, maybe he spent the whole three minutes imagining that he were a little braver, that he’d taken Jon’s tired body into his arms and helped him change, knelt to the floor to undo his shoelaces and look up reverently at the man he loved. Imagined the quiet gratitude in Jon’s eyes and the romantic lighting and the soft swelling music and, this was getting out of hand.

By the time he returned, Jon lay against the wall, piled high with a heap of blankets all the way up to his nose. His eyes were wide as Martin slid under the covers, laying his glasses to rest next to Jon’s on the nightstand (his heart couldn’t keep taking this), and Martin clicked off the light.

In the dark, everything was louder. The wind outside and the bones of the house, yes, those were louder, but much louder than that was the static charge that suddenly made Martin reconsider if he should’ve let Jon take the couch and his back suffer for it. He didn’t mean that, not really, but  _ christ _ .

Jon was close and yet not - there was little feasible space to really be had in the bed, but the solid few inches between Martin’s shoulder and Jon’s tiny curled frame felt like an impenetrable boundary. Martin tried to relax, tried to think about the fact that they’ve been through  _ so much horror _ together and if they can do that then surely they can sleep in each other’s presence. But. Jon’s  _ presence _ was just so  _ much _ . Suddenly Martin remembered sleepovers in secondary school and the awful tension that had never broken, overridden by fear of his friends hating him if they knew what he  _ felt _ and just, writing about it was always  _ safer _ , he could tuck it away in a notebook and never risk losing anything. It was so much easier, and Martin couldn’t remember when exactly he’d convinced himself he preferred the  _ wanting _ over the  _ having _ , but he was entrenched in it now.

He breathed carefully, in through his nose and out, trying not to feel strangled. There was simply too much other shit,  _ way bigger _ shit going on to be going this insane over such a small thing.

Yet when Jon adjusted his position, apparently trying to even out the tangle of blankets, Martin felt him against his shoulder and, automatically, he leaned into the contact with a sigh of content that he couldn’t stop. Jon froze, then, and Martin stilled as well, trying to quell the bubbling panic that was about to really get going. Stupid,  _ stupid _ -

Jon was laying back down on his side, face turned toward Martin, and Martin could barely see but he swore Jon’s hand had escaped over the covers and was inching toward Martin’s. It took a terribly long journey to get to him, and Martin hadn’t helped, unable to move, until Jon’s slender fingers slotted into his and suddenly Martin was breathing again.

They weren’t arranged in the most comfortable way for it, Martin’s shoulder at an awkward angle. After a few minutes of settling into this new reality and adjusting to  _ Jonathan Sims holding his hand in bed _ , Martin rolled to face Jon and clasp his hand again, his other arm sliding under the pillows and  _ that _ hand ending up temptingly close to Jon’s hair. He was more used to sleeping on his side anyway, had only been trying it on his back to protect himself from staring at Jon, but, well, all bets were off now. Jon had reached for him and - and Martin realized this was not the first time, not by a long shot. Jon had been reaching for him for months, hadn’t he? Ever since he’d woken up he’d been trying to pull Martin close and, and Martin had had so many justifications for pushing him away but right now, right  _ now _ he couldn’t think of any reasons to keep holding back.

In the static darkness, Martin experimented very slowly, incrementally, running his thumb in the tiniest circle over Jon’s knuckles like a question. Jon’s eyes stayed wide, observing Martin’s quiet ministrations and studying Martin’s face with a kind of mute reverence, like he committed every detail to memory and filed away. It was an intense thing to be watched by such a creature, and Martin wasn’t sure how much of it was Jon and how much was the Archivist, and, frankly he did not care. He’d never enjoyed the feeling of being watched until now, but this was less like, less like having an evil overlord CEO watch you with the threat of depositing trauma directly into your brain, and more like, simply being  _ seen _ , seen and adored.

Sleepiness was finally starting to creep in on him, heavy and warm, and even the exhilaration of tracing the veins in Jon’s wrist couldn’t hold all his weariness at bay. Martin caressed Jon’s hand, this small thing he was suddenly allowed, until he fell asleep.

He did wake once or twice in the night, startled to find Jon properly asleep, and it didn’t take Martin long to fall back into the same state. He kept finding Jon closer against him, his own fingers dug deep into long silvering hair and Jon’s warm breath tickling his neck and a scarred hand tucked into Martin’s hip, Jon’s bony knees in Martin’s thigh and frozen feet pressed against Martin’s calf. He’d never felt more content, caressing the back of Jon’s head until the five A.M. grey took him down again.  _ Enjoy it _ , the cabin seemed to whisper.  _ You have everything you have yearned for. _

Jon was gorgeous in the morning light. Martin awoke to that intense feeling of being seen again, Jon’s eyes glowing just a little too green at him, and found out that he didn’t especially mind. If anything, the way Jon watched him made Martin envision the Beholding with little eldritch heart eyes. He probably… well he knew he probably shouldn’t make light of it so easily. But there was a hard line between Jon reaching into his brain and Knowing something versus… this quiet consideration, affectionate if still a bit spooky.

And maybe this was life now. Everything else was batshit insanity, but, he woke up next to Jon and brushed his teeth and his skin was warm all over inside and out with the thought of Jon waiting for him. Was he marked by it? Martin checked in the mirror like he was going to see the prints everywhere Jon had touched him, his face and hands and neck. It seemed impossible that such a thing wouldn’t leave a visible imprint on his skin.

And if Martin was going to have any doubts about Jon’s humanity, they were quelled when Martin wandered into the kitchen to find Jon making tea. Making  _ two _ cups of tea, and, oh, how the tables had turned. He deliberately let his fingers slide over Jon’s as he took the proffered mug, nerve endings lighting up again and he felt himself smirking at Jon’s visible reaction. Christ,  _ he _ could do that to him. Jon’s skin was too dark to really show the blush but Martin could see the heat as Jon looked down and away, reduced to stammering like they hadn’t been  _ cuddling _ ten minutes ago. Martin didn’t think a person could get so flustered about a brief second of such innocent contact after they’d literally spent the night pressing against him like they intended to steal all his warmth. And he didn’t mind a bit.

He distracted himself with trying the tea, which. Which. Martin wanted to like it. He wanted to enjoy the cup of earl grey Jonathan Sims had made specifically for him and the casual warmth and romance of it all, but suddenly Martin understood why  _ he _ had been the resident tea-maker of the Magnus Institute and it was because, despite the fact that they were both British, only one of them knew how to brew a decent cup.

He felt some smug pride at that, as Jon watched him anxiously, and Martin tried to keep a straight face. A gay face. Whatever. A nonchalant queer little face that betrayed nothing. “It’s not bad,” he said too high. Nailed it.

“Oh, shut up.” The exasperation he adores, then the softness Jon pulled down over his face like it was intentional, like he had to remember how to express affection. “- was thinking we could pop down to the store later, grab a few more things.”  _ Maybe you can teach me the right way to make this _ , said Jon, and it’s, it’s. Oh no.

Martin felt it then. Felt his grin fall away and the heavy longing lodge in his chest. Here it was, he realized this was how Jon loved him, in the reaching and the trying, in pushing through the social awkwardness and giving up the illusion that he knew what he was doing.  _ I love you _ Martin thought desperately,  _ I’m going to love you for the rest of my life you stupid silly wonderful brave lovely man - _

He put his tea down, then took Jon’s mug and set that down as well. He was going to do this and do it properly, like he’d been too afraid to last night. It took him too long to realize that Jon watched like he was unseeing, like he didn’t know what was coming despite how slow and cumbersome Martin felt. All he could think about was the distant roar of the ocean and the heavy fog and the blank static until Jon’s hands came to his cheeks and called him home, and now he reached for Jon’s face in the same way.

Except that Jon flinched, and then panicked, and then Martin was very sure for a second that Jon was about to run out of the room, and oh god oh  _ god _ if he did Martin didn’t know what he was going to do.

God god god fuck shit fuck, “I’m sorry, Jon I’m sorry I didn’t meant to -”

“No, no, I’m sorry-” Jon’s taken off his glasses, weakly pushed them onto the counter behind him and then pushed his hands into his face, rubbing at his eyes uselessly. “I’m okay. Martin. I didn’t. I didn’t mean that. It’s just.”

_ Everything that’s touched me lately… has hurt. _

It took everything Martin had for that moment to hold back, arms awkwardly half-raised because, because he wasn’t prepared for this and he felt deep in his bones that he  _ should have been _ , of  _ course _ unexpected touch triggered a lot for Jon. Only Martin had forgotten about that, so saturated in how  _ much _ touch there had been in the last twenty four hours, and before all this he’d just gotten so used to seeing Jon’s scars sometimes he forgot they were there, forgot what Jon had looked like without them. Forgot how relatively quickly Jon had acquired so many scars, how alone he’d been and how every day that he’d made it to work he’d seemed weaker, unraveled a little more even as his focus intensified.

Martin’s fingers flexed. He was going to kill everyone who had hurt Jon. He was going to enjoy the violence of it like  _ they _ had enjoyed hurting his Jon -

Then Jon pressed himself into Martin’s chest, crying openly, and Martin understood a little. His arms settled around Jon, one hand rubbing circles into his back and the other in his hair. This was the comfort that came most naturally to Martin, holding something precious close to his chest like he can make his own body a home for someone else, whispering nonsense into Jon’s ear until the shaking subsided. This was it and for once in his life Martin was not imagining a different version of events happening concurrently, he couldn’t even think of such things when Jon was in his arms in real life and sobbing and oh, god, how long had Jon been holding all of this in? Since the coma? Since Jane Prentiss? Before then?

He kissed the top of Jon’s head carefully, grounding himself there where the silver streaks cut the black, and grounding himself  _ there _ where Jon’s thin shoulderblades rolled under his palm, and there where Jon’s fist curled into the front of Martin’s shirt and his tears soaked through the fabric a little, and there where Jon’s breath evened out at last.

Martin had to look at him then, carefully reaching to wipe Jon’s tears and giving him plenty of time to know it was coming.  _ This shouldn’t hurt _ , he found himself saying, desperately. It wasn’t quite what he meant - or, it was, but it could be misinterpreted, he didn’t wish for Jon to take any blame upon himself. Fuck. “You should only be touched with love, you should only be touched how you want.” His hands held Jon’s face now, and there it was, the same way Jon had reached him in the Lonely, and Martin felt like he understood it a little better now. Jon looked directly back at him and it was almost too much, he was so  _ intense _ about it, like he laid both himself and Martin bare and exposed to the world.

Jon’s hands mirrored Martin’s then, and they held each other’s faces and this was getting so overwhelming Martin almost wished he was hugging Jon again instead so they could hide their faces from each other.

_ I do want this _ , said Jon. Martin stared. “You,” he kept going. “How you touch me. It feels nice.”  _ When I flinched, it was just a reaction to… literally everything else. _

_ Not to you. _

He was going to die of this, but he only had a second to feel overcome by all that before Jon started panicking, and, yeah, the mom friend override kicked in and Martin was able to quiet him down. Jon’s anxious babbling spun around his head in circles and it took him a long minute to put it back in order.  _ If you want to touch me, I do like it. _

_ I know that we - _

_ That what you said in the Lonely doesn’t necessarily mean you- _

_ There’s no pressure to - it’s not a big deal - _

Martin’s rage flared hot again and it took him a second to register the source of his anger. Not anger at Jon, at the very most weary exasperation with him, but anger, so much blinding rage, at everything that had ever touched him. Not just physically but, everything that had made Jon feel he had to be smaller, that he’d had to deny his own needs and feelings. And. Martin felt quite a bit embarrassed about that, because he wasn’t exactly the champion of validating himself either, was he?

“It is a  _ big deal _ , Jon,” he found himself saying, voice a little too rushed and high and he concentrated on slowing down, saying it right. Clarifying. “I just, would like to say that the things you have been through are in fact a big deal.” There it was, what he meant. He focused himself, and felt the texture of Jon’s scarred hand on his face, the tactile sensation he was already getting used to but he found himself wondering just how much Jon could  _ feel _ with that hand, if anything at all.

Jon’s dark warm lovely eyes glowed just slightly green, not enough to compel anything out of Martin and he knew it, at this point he knew the variations and that this level was just an indication that Jon was wholly focused on something, in this case that something being  _ him _ . And he knows that he refuses to leave any doubt in Jon’s mind about his  _ feelings. _ Everyone else seemed to have known for years but, but Jon was the one who was supposed to know and feel and believe it, that Martin was  _ his _ and always had been.

“I do love you,” said Martin, and, and his whole body exhaled with it, a relief to his bones to get it out. “Jon. I know what I said in the Lonely and how it sounded but, I, I was so far away then, I don’t think I could even  _ feel _ anything.” Jon at this point took to tracing comforting circles next to Martin’s eyes, gentle and encouraging and Martin was losing track of what he was saying a little bit as it fell out in a rush, “- and I saw you and I had a reason to feel everything again, and I love you, Jon, immensely, really, and.” He took a breath. He had had a point before and forgotten it, but it was important. “For me, that means I want to hold you when I see you hurt, but, I don’t have to if you ever don’t want it -”

He was snatched downward then, gentle ministrations traded for arms clutching him tight, and the breath went out of Martin for a moment, startled. He blankly registered that he was the one shaking now, just a little, and like a wound up spool of love and fear had been sitting inside him for years and was now coming untangled, he couldn’t stop till he got it all out of him.

“I love you,” he kept saying, and Jon nosed against his neck and held him like he could make his body big enough to protect Martin, which should have been ridiculous but Martin  _ did _ feel protected. “- I always loved you, from the beginning probably,” his hands meeting each other at the small of Jon’s back and the weight of Jon in his arms was already becoming such a familiar comfort - “or, I mean. I knew I was going to love you, you were, ah, a bit of a prick back then, actually -” Jon laughed into him at that, and Martin pressed their foreheads to each other, steadying his own breath to Jon’s cadence. “Jon.” God. He’d said his name like a prayer for years and here it all was.

He realized how  _ much _ touching was happening now, and, and remembered what had catalyzed this entire conversation. And he was pretty sure Jon wasn’t currently trying to, to push himself for Martin’s pleasure or anything, but, just in case. “Jon. You know you get to decide how you are touched, right, and, I mean, you’re not going to push me away? By stating your boundaries, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Jon, like he had never in fact considered such a thing. Which wasn’t exactly his fault after so many people had explicitly ignored his boundaries and hurt him. And Martin ached so deeply for him at that thought. “Yeah, I know.”

Martin was going to, to pull away and clear his head for a minute, maybe get to the process of dumping out their cold and very offensive tea and remaking it, but Jon’s hands went back to Martin’s face and stilled him in his tracks.

He was hyper-aware under Jon’s fingertips, feeling like something brought to life under an artist’s touch, an instrument pushing itself upward into the hands that might play it, and then Jon started pushing himself up on his toes which was  _ adorable _ and then his lips touched Martin’s skin. The contact was barely there, just a gentle moth bumping into him, his cheek and his nose. He felt Jon removing his glasses and then, all of Martin’s sense of self seemed to funnel down to the very basic process of breathing and standing, staying still and allowing Jon’s affection to wash over him. He was allowed this. They were both allowed all of this.

Jon’s lips kissed Martin’s eyelids and, Martin had to help him do that by bending down just a tiny bit, Jon could barely reach him, and then Jon wandered several times almost to Martin’s lips and Martin let him have it, this slow and intimate yet nonsexual mapping of his face. It was a little bit bizarre for him and his hands didn’t quite know what to do but Jon seemed so  _ himself _ right now, a quiet and reserved creature giving worship in his own way. Martin’s hands settled behind Jon’s neck and that was comfortable, his eyes closed as he tasted Jon’s breath in front of him.

Jon broke the silence so quietly, it hardly made a ripple. “I really love you too, you know.”

And then Martin’s eyes opened to witness the full force of what it meant to be adored by Jonathan Sims, the weight of his eyes estimating every part of your soul and holding them with love. That was, that thought process was maybe a little bit extra but Martin couldn’t stop himself from thinking it. He was Seen. He really wasn’t alone anymore.

“Yeah, well.” He huffed in his awkward way. Christ it was all so fucking much. “Cool.”

_ “Cool _ ,” Jon tossed back with soft laughter, relenting a little and releasing Martin from that heavy gaze as he pressed his nose to Martin’s. Later, Martin made a mental note, he was going to drag him about that, for making fun of Martin’s little ‘ _ cool _ ’ like he wasn’t Jonathan Sims extraordinaire of weary one-word answers himself.

But right now. Right now, he had his arms around his love and he was still reminding himself of that fact like it was never going to stop being new to him, like it could slip away from him any second except that it  _ wasn’t _ . He kissed Jon’s face, tracing every scar with his lips in much the same way Jon had followed his freckles, and then, and then.

He wasn’t sure he even meant to start it, but there was the faintest pink scar stretching toward the corner of Jon’s mouth and he chased it single-mindedly, and then Jon turned into it and then Martin was being  _ kissed _ . The surprise of it ran deep enough that for a second Martin forgot  _ how _ to kiss, standing numbly and close-mouthed until. Until.

Jon didn’t kiss the way Martin expected.

Martin had, in fact, spent a lot of time wondering exactly how Jon might kiss someone. There wasn’t any answer to this that he wouldn’t have been  _ delighted _ to experience, but yeah, it was fun to run through all the possibilities. There had also always been the possibility that Jon didn’t like to kiss at all, and that would’ve been good too.

Jon kissed Martin and for a second - Martin would have to forgive himself for this - for a second he lost his grip on the present, and thought back to the day he’d found out Jon was ace.

To be honest the whole interaction had been a bit uncomfortable; it wasn’t the sort of thing any of them should’ve heard from someone who  _ wasn’t Jon, _ and Martin knew it. He didn’t want to say anything  _ bad _ about Georgie, but yeah, he did not especially love the fact that she was gossiping with Jon’s coworkers about his private life. Even if she had been deeply involved in that private life, even if he trusted her enough to ask for her help. It wasn’t  _ just _ jealousy, though there certainly was that. Martin wasn’t one hundred percent  _ over _ the time Jon had been framed for murder and run to his ex-girlfriend for help instead of, well,  _ him. _

Anyway. Martin had done his best not to pry, and in the meantime, he’d found himself still thinking a lot about kissing Jon. Thinking about Jon kissing  _ him. _

And after years of what  _ apparently  _ had been  _ mutual _ pining, Martin had expected Jon to kiss as reservedly as he did pretty much everything else. To be proper and businesslike, the same way he’d gone out for drinks with all of them one time and acted like his social skills were going to count toward some, some annual  _ review _ . To kiss like part of his brain was distracted, thinking about  _ emulsifiers _ or something.

But  _ oh. _

What he got instead was Jon kissing him breathless. Jon, who was so small Martin wanted to pick him up like a bag of flour, needling and pushing himself so deep into Martin that, christ, Martin actually found himself stumbling backwards for a second. His arms were so full of archivist and suddenly he forgot everything he’d been thinking about, Georgie whomst, his brain didn’t have a single thought in it except  _ Jonjonjonjon _ and  _ oh wow tongue _ and it was fucking  _ lovely. _

Jon then proceeded to make the most delightful sound in his throat that anyone’s ever made, and Martin’s brain short-circuited. He could feel the embarrassment like a wave of heat, Jon was glowing with it as he pulled away and Martin followed him, trying so hard to keep kissing him. This did not work out well due to Jon’s petulant frowning and Martin’s inability to stop grinning, so he just kissed the edges of Jon’s stupid mouth and then his face all over to the best of his ability.

“You’re adorable,” said Jon, looking like he was trying to keep control over his features to fix Martin with some calculating scowl, but he couldn’t keep it up and started laughing,  _ giggling _ no less.

“Me? Christ, Jon, look at  _ you _ ,” said Martin between kisses, all the breath gone out of him. Eyebrows and temples and cheeks and lips and the long point of his nose. His hands surged through Jon’s hair again and Jon closed his eyes contentedly, looking exactly like a very content cat. “J-just so you know,” he found himself saying. “Jon. I am never going to stop kissing you.”

He’d never heard Jon laugh this much and the sound of it was quickly becoming addicting. “I’m holding you to that,” promised Jon, and kissed him properly again. He was less aggressive about it now, languid as his body seemed to spill like water, until Martin was pretty sure that Jon was exerting zero effort against gravity and it was only Martin’s arms holding him up.

After a while, Martin paused, pulled back. “Jon?”

“Hmm?” Jon opened his eyes like it was a chore.

“We are… I mean, we’re dating now, right?”

“O-oh!” Jon stammered, suddenly hands flailing like they didn’t know where to be. “Um? Yes? I thought so at least.”

“O-okay. Yeah, I thought so too, I just. You know.”

“Yeah,” said Jon quickly. Yes. There had been… well, a lot of months spent  _ not _ saying things so directly.

“We’ve gone backwards, haven’t we?” Martin pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead for a long moment, steadying his breath as something settled deep inside him. “I’ve never taken you out.”

For someone so small Jon became a furnace hot enough to heat a house when he was embarrassed, and  _ that _ was ever so interesting. “You’ve taken me to lunch plenty of times, Martin.”

“Those weren’t proper dates, silly.” Martin remembered convincing Jon to leave the Institute just for an hour some days, just to get out and see some sunshine and eat something that wasn’t microwaved, and god, if that was the standard Jon had for dates then Martin  _ really _ needed to show him how it was done. He caught Jon’s hand and held his palm against Jon’s, fingers touching but not interlocking. He’d wondered for a long time how it would feel to compare them.

He could see Jon staring at their hands too, taking a deep gulp as he studied their palms against one another. Martin had never, well. He’d never especially liked his own hands, too soft in some ways and not soft enough in others. He’d worked hard all his life but he’d wanted hands that looked like they wrote poems. Whatever that meant.

Jon slid his fingers through Martin’s now, and pulled both to his lips, to kiss Martin’s knuckles reverently. Martin was beginning to recognize his pattern, touching everything gently with his eyes and then his fingertips and then his lips to learn it, memorize it. Some type of sacrament in the way he offered wordless devotion. It made Martin’s hand almost burn. He had never… Well, he’d never expected  _ any _ of this, but when he had imagined what it would be like to be with Jon, he hadn’t let himself think of  _ this _ , the single-minded regard that put Martin on such display. He’d never anticipated this much  _ attention _ .

He should have known better, really. When had Jon ever decided something was worth his heed and then been divided about it? Martin was slowly realizing that he’d  _ always _ had this level of attention from Jon, only it had been repressed once, forced to fit into Jon’s boxes of what he thought was acceptable professional behavior and would hide all his fears.

“I love you,” he said again. He could get very used to saying it out loud now.

Jon shook himself, like he’d gotten lost in holding Martin’s hand and forgotten that words exist. Looked up at Martin, eyes gleaming. “I love you too. Shall we make breakfast?”

And like that, Martin realized to the depth of his sense of self that he was actually dating Jonathan Sims. Everything else had gone fuck all to hell, but this, this. This was happening in real life and it was  _ good. _

Breakfast was a small affair, obviously, they had little to work with, but Jon seemed keen to, well, do things for Martin. Like he wanted to make up for years of being brought tea every day. The kitchen table was a little circular thing pushed into the corner, and they found themselves knocking elbows a bit as they ate, but, well, it was  _ nice _ . It was really, really nice.

“Have you heard from Basira?” asked Martin over his cereal.

A deep sigh. “My phone hasn’t been working up here… I suppose we could try in town. It’s weird. I feel like I should still be able to See her, but, I can’t…”

Martin frowned. “I didn’t know you were trying to.”

Jon blushed a little. “Well. I did promise not to pry. I’m not… I’m not trying to look into anyone’s head anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I should still feel the presence.” He pushed his (largely untouched) bowl away and pushed his hands through his hair. Martin had the fleeting thought that Jon was going to start balding young if he kept putting stress on his scalp like that. What a good and lovely problem for someone to have to worry about.

“I might’ve just overdone it a bit, yesterday,” Jon went on. “Maybe being this far from the Institute, I don’t know. I still…  _ feel _ my power, but it’s like it’s far away. Like I’m only connected to it by a thread.”

Martin reached over (not very far), pulled Jon’s hands from his hair to cup them in his own palms. “Could that be a good thing?” he wondered. “I mean. I know you never asked for any of this. Maybe. Maybe when we left, we broke free somehow?”

Jon looked up at him with a weary smile. “It’s a nice thought,” he said softly. “But no. I don’t think we are free of it. The Eye… I don’t think it likes me being here, this far away. I don’t think it wants me to find its powers  _ useful _ right now. But it is still in me.”

“Is that, um, something you Know, or…?”

“It’s deeper than that. I just feel it.” Jon’s mouth quirked a little, like he was enjoying the irony of someone as skeptical as he’d once been now going on and on about  _ feeling _ things. His hands slid out of Martin’s and he stood up to collect their bowls, kissing Martin’s forehead as he went. Martin sat at the table another moment, feeling his insides wringing. He realized suddenly that Jon had kept talking, and he’d missed it.

“Hmm?”

“Oh. The store,” Jon repeated. “If you’re up for heading out soon, I thought we’d go down and get some proper food. Maybe we can call Basira from there.”

“Oh, yeah. Sounds good.”

The walk down into the town was shorter than it had seemed yesterday; Martin supposed a night of sleep would do that. It was a grey and foggy day, and they couldn’t see far into the landscape. Martin had always enjoyed the fog, enjoyed anything that made the world feel a little more romantic and bewitching, but now, well. He probably squeezed Jon’s hand a little harder than he needed to, but Jon seemed to understand perfectly and they hurried along, wasting no time down the road. The mist cleared up a bit by the time they reached the shops, lower along the foot of the little mountain, and Martin breathed a little easier.

Jon tried to ring Basira but got no answer, and apparently threw himself into meal planning to cope with it. Martin only followed suit, focused on finding whatever ingredients Jon insisted they needed while his mind went largely blank. It occurred to him that Jon must be planning something with everything they were picking up. Was Jon going to cook? After the morning’s tea catastrophe, Martin wasn’t sure what to expect. But the idea that Jon might even want to try, brought a flicker of warmth back into Martin’s cold chest.

“Hey,” said Jon, weighing some apples in his hands. He had that concerned look on his face, the crease between his brows that had seemed permanently etched for the last year or so, every time Jon had tried to talk to him and he’d pulled away, turned invisible, spun further into Peter Lukas’s plot -

“Martin. Martin, sweetheart, are you okay?”

He blinked. Jon had set the apples in the cart and his hands clutched at Martin’s jacket sleeves, and Martin was uncomfortably aware that a few people glanced their way a moment too long.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Martin shook his head, remembering they were trying not to do this anymore. Not to be so self-sacrificing. That they were allowed to not be okay, together. “I mean. I got a bit overwhelmed. I think the fog outside got to me.” Ridiculous. He was going to be afraid of water evaporation for the rest of his life.

“What can I do?” Jon asked quietly.

A lump formed in Martin’s throat at that. God. Jon really loved him, didn’t he? It was all so much. “I don’t know. Keep me distracted maybe? Until we get back at least.” He hoped he wasn’t asking too much.

Jon nodded seriously, and then began to tell Martin everything there apparently was to know about Braeburn apples. Which were discovered in New Zealand in the fifties, and retained much of their shape when they were cooked and therefore were ideal for making tarts, and he learned a good deal about quality control issues that came up in storage, and, and.

It was minutes later that he realized Jon had called him  _ sweetheart _ .

Jon was still going on about Braeburn browning disorder or something when Martin stopped in the middle of the aisle, and gently yanked Jon to him. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was okay in general or especially in public, but Jon had plenty of time to pull away and he didn’t, and Martin kissed him.

Not heatedly. They  _ were _ in the middle of a store. Just. Just a little kiss, then he let Jon go and felt all his insides warming up again. Jon stammered, then his eyes fell upon something else and he started infodumping about the history of canning processes, and Martin loved him so much. He wished, deeply, for a moment, that he had known Jon when they were children. He could picture it easily, Jon as a scrawny little boy, his backpack probably big enough to eat him and his arms weighed down with books. Martin would have adored him then too, he knew it. He was beginning to feel like he’d been in love with Jon all his life, even before he knew him.

The day was marginally warmer by the time they got back to the cottage, but the fog hadn’t fully cleared. Jon didn’t say he was cold, but whenever his hands weren’t held in Martin’s he kept rubbing them together, or bringing them up to his mouth to breathe hot air onto them, and, Martin saw the opportunity and he took it. Grabbed the shrunken green jumper from upstairs and offered it to Jon, who didn’t seem to realize until he put it on that it was closer to his size than Martin’s. “What-?” he wondered.

“Shrunk in the wash,” Martin explained, hoping Jon wouldn’t ask for the reason he’d chosen to pack a sweater he couldn’t wear himself. Still, Jon rolled up the ends of the long sleeves and smiled up at Martin and, Martin lost a little of his composure, feeling exceedingly warm at the sight. “I-it looks really nice on you,” he said, his voice coming out a little too high and strained.

Jon tilted his head, almost smirking. “Oh?” he prompted. Martin refused to give him more of that right now -  _ christ _ , Jon was insufferable when he knew how cute he was.

So Martin distracted himself by bringing in some firewood from the little covered shed, and did his best to get the fireplace going. He wasn’t very good at this, despite having a lighter and a block of firestarter. Maybe it was too damp; the wood smoked unhappily for a minute, but refused to do its job and burn.

“Jon, do you know how to do this?”

“No.” Jon stopped, frowning, and then he glowed just a little bit, the room cast in an eerie green. “Okay, yeah. I do now.”

“Did you just…” Martin stared. “Jon. D-did you just use your Beholding powers to learn how to make a  _ fire? _ ”

Jon shrugged. “There’s a Boy Scout down the road.” Like that explained everything.

“I thought you were… disconnected from it, here.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon paled a bit, wrung his hands. “I didn’t want to worry you. But yeah. I felt it coming back today. Not, not fully, you know. But stronger than it was.”

“Oh.” Martin genuinely wasn’t sure what to say, but looking back he realized that Jon  _ had _ seemed a little livelier for the last few hours, more energetic than he’d been that morning. It had been too much to hope it was the separation from the Eye itself that would make Jon feel healthy again, wasn’t it? Was he ever going to get away from it without suffering?

“Please don’t worry about it,” Jon said softly, and he touched Martin’s cheek. “I don’t really know what’s going on, I’m just… I’m trying to take it day by day, I guess. But I am here with you, okay?”

Martin held his hand to his face, then nodded and let go, promptly giving up. What could they do? Jon was constantly fighting so hard, and Martin didn’t want to add to his stress. Jon turned back to the task of lighting the fire, and Martin settled into the little couch.

He’d picked up a shitty paperback at the grocery store, one of those ridiculous romance novels that featured some heroine looking adoringly up at a stoic man who didn’t own a shirt. These things were always tragically heterosexual, but, they had their fun bits. Jon had visibly restrained himself from commenting on it at the time, but Martin knew he wasn’t going to last long. To be honest, half the reason he’d picked it up was because he knew it would piss Jon off. While it was shockingly lovely and wonderful to be the centerpoint of all of Jon’s surprisingly sappy lovey dovey attention, Martin missed him being a little bitchy too.

If he was going to be fully honest with himself, yes, Martin was terrified for them right now. But he was so exhausted from sitting in it. They  _ deserved _ this, some peace and quiet, some lovely time together in a cozy cabin. They deserved to have a running bit with each other about trashy paperbacks and not worry about the end of the world.

And, well, he couldn’t complain about sitting back with a good (re: bad) novel, while the love of his life stoked a happy little fire for him. It was quite cheery once it got going, actually. Jon stood back from the flames, looking altogether very pleased with himself, which Martin would have teased if the fireplace hadn’t defeated  _ him _ first.

“Well. I’m going to get started on cooking. Enjoy your, ah,  _ novel _ .” Jon said it like it physically pained him, like validating that such a book existed and got printed and published was personally going to attack him in his home. For a second he sounded exactly like he had four years ago, insufferably anti-fun and trying so hard to mask his own incompetence with condescending glares. To be honest, it had always been very fun to annoy him.

Martin grinned brightly. “Thanks, I will!”

So the thing was. The  _ thing was _ that Jon could actually cook. Jonathan Sims Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute who couldn’t make a decent cup of tea (honestly, who just left the bag to steep the whole time, you don’t just  _ do that _ to an earl grey). Jon who barely ate or slept and who looked like a tentative breeze would knock him right over, could cook.

Martin had somehow been truly not paying attention in the store either, because they’d gotten a few bottles of wine and he hadn’t noticed any of it. Yet when the  _ loveliest _ smell from the kitchen coaxed Martin away from his book and his fire, drawing him to Jon like moth to flame, a bottle of some type of Chardonnay sat unopened on the counter as Jon worked. Becoming aware of Martin’s presence, Jon nodded toward one of the cupboards by the window, “Grab some glasses for us?”

Martin obliged, though there weren’t many options. He did find two glass cups that were about as close to wine flutes as they were going to get, and at Jon’s gentle indication he took over stirring the layer of oil and spices in the pan while Jon poured the wine. It was all terrifyingly domestic and Martin was very afraid for a moment that he was about to start crying; he wasn’t, generally, someone who cried very often, but everything was changing so much and so quickly, and he could barely keep up with it. He realized, feeling stupid as it occurred to him, that this was a sort of date, wasn’t it? A quiet night in, maybe, but Jon had bought  _ wine _ and set the tiny little table with  _ folded napkins _ and he was cooking for  _ him _ .

For a second, Martin felt indignant. He’d thought  _ he _ was going to plan their first date, but, well. They’d just have to have more, wouldn’t they?

Jon pressed the glass into his hands, maintaining heavy eye contact as he tossed a sip of his own back, and, okay. Martin fixated a little on Jon’s throat as he swallowed, and then quickly tried the wine himself. He wasn’t, as a rule, big on drinking; it wasn’t just the tannins, there was something about alcohol that he couldn’t disconnect from his mother’s loneliness and disappointment. So for Martin, drinking alone had always been a big and solid  _ no _ , and drinking with friends was fine, but he was careful.

So he didn’t know much about wines, about the subtleties of bouquets or whatever it was people talked about. But whatever Jon had picked, it was quite nice actually. Blooming fuzzy heat as it went down, and Jon leaned into him happily while he stirred and chopped and did whatever it was he was doing, occasionally passing a task off to Martin. They talked, though not constantly, and. It kept setting in again. They were really doing this.

He tried to remember the last time he had cooked with another person, and truth be told, this might’ve been the first. No one had really taught him, and when Martin was young and Mum wasn’t home a whole lot, he’d gotten  _ creative _ in the kitchen and figured some things out. When he was older and the internet was more of a thing, he’d gotten a little better, but it had never been like  _ this _ . Martin had indulged deeply in tea like it was a craft, but food, well, mostly it was just sustenance. It was something he needed.

He’d always expected Jon to be even worse than him in that regard. After years of watching Jon forget to eat, forget to go home and sleep, forget to sustain his body and run on pure fumes and stubborn, blinding, stupid willpower….

It  _ hurt _ , to realize that once upon a time, Jon had been less scarred, less tired, that he had enjoyed living and existing within a physical body in a way he had forgotten. That he knew how to cook and how to pick a nice wine and how to set a romantic scene and how to love so deep his affection was  _ searing _ , and yet. This was the man that some horrifically evil entity wanted to strip of humanity. This was the man fighting so hard not to lose himself against a power that wanted to swallow him whole.

Jon told him about the recipe as he worked. “Well you know how my mum died when I was really young. And, uh, I gave my grandmother a pretty hard time about most things, but yeah. I was a super picky eater back then, and eventually my grandmother started cooking things my mum had made, and, yeah.”

Jon didn’t speak of it like it was  _ hard _ for him necessarily, but like he wasn’t used to anyone wanting to listen to it. “It wasn’t something she had time for a whole lot, and I mean, it wasn’t always easy to get all the ingredients in Bournemouth, but she tried. I think she felt bad about the whole, you know. She didn’t know much about mum’s home or how I’d been raised before that. Dad had died a few years before that, and, ah, we weren’t all that terribly close.”

He stirred some cream into the spinach at this point, checked on the rice, and, seeming satisfied, glanced back at Martin. Who had forgotten to do things like blink, for a minute, because once again he was overwhelmed with the idea of knowing Jon when they were younger, and how desperately he wanted to hug him.

He remembered that was literally a thing he could do, and so he did.

He got almost equally emotional once they were sat down and Martin tried the paneer, which was deeply lovely. It wasn’t like, the most exquisite meal anyone had ever made, it seemed fairly simple which, yeah, Martin thought that suited Jon very nicely, actually. Warm and deceptively filling and, so suddenly, Martin thought, this was the taste of home to him now.

He should’ve been self-conscious with the way Jon watched him eat, but it was, honestly it was flattering. Long after the plates were clean, they sat back in the little chairs in the dim light, sipping away the wine and talking. Talking, blessedly, about anything that wasn’t work and the possibly impending apocalypse. Talking about secondary school mishaps and Jon’s uni days and the poetry slams Martin used to go to in Shoreditch. Jon’s knee rested gently against Martin’s under the table and Martin thought,  _ I have been waiting four years to see you relaxed like this. _ Jon smiled, at first like he was afraid to show his teeth, which were small and some a bit crooked in the most endearing way. Which only egged Martin to try to get him to really laugh out, and whenever he did it was  _ stunning. _

Eventually the night settled heavier around the cabin, and Jon seemed to suddenly notice the hour, finishing his glass in one long swig and then clearing the table.

“You cooked, let me clean up,” Martin tried to insist, starting himself up to help.

“No, no, darling, I’ve got this,” Jon argued, and Martin was so dazed by the endearments that seemed to pour so easily out of him that he forgot to argue back. “Could you check on the fire maybe? We probably shouldn’t leave it overnight.”

Martin agreed that he knew very little about fireplaces in old Scottish cottages and their safety procedures, so, sure, putting it out sounded wise. He brought his wine with him to the living room, taking a minute to just… just to stand there, really. To soak it in. The warmth inside him and the warmth all around him. The sounds of Jon moving around the kitchen and the crackling hearth. The book he’d left open on the couch, already making a deep crease in its spine.

What would he be doing with his life, he wondered, if they’d never worked at the Institute? What would Jon be doing? He liked to think maybe they would still be here - not  _ here _ in Daisy’s safehouse, specifically, but somewhere like this. That they would have met somehow, at a coffee shop or something, and unaware of the eldritch horrors that haunted the edges of reality they would have gone on dates, and moved in together, and gone on holiday somewhere.

Then again, what if he’d taken up Jon’s offer to escape? They’d both be blind, but, they’d be figuring it out together, wouldn’t they?

A sinister chill ran through his bones at that moment and Martin shook himself. No point in speculating, really. They’d both made their choices, aware of the consequences or not. Martin was here, and the one he loved was close, and that would have to be enough. He put out the fire and wandered back to the kitchen.

Martin had decided to announce his presence from now on, just to make things simpler. Jon seemed to actually be very pro-touching, but he didn’t want to startle him again like the first time. He leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, swirling the wine around his glass a bit and feeling warm and fuzzy all over. Jon had his arms in the sink, the sleeves of his jumper - of  _ Martin’s _ jumper, the dark green one that looked  _ so _ gorgeous on him - rolled up to keep out of the sudsy water.

“Hello, my dear,” Martin said, testing it out. He didn’t think Jon would survive anything as casual as, say,  _ babe _ . It would probably kill him on the spot. Jon glanced over his shoulder at him, eyes shining before turning back to his task, and Martin set down his glass, wandered up to Jon and wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“Yes?” asked Jon, and Martin could  _ hear _ his smile. “Something you want, my love?”

“Mhm,” said Martin noncommitedly. He buried his face in Jon’s hair, in the smell of shampoo. “Just want to be close right now.” Jon finished scrubbing the last pan clean while Martin kissed him, the top of his head and the side of his face, and Jon turned in his arms, hands soapy and wet as they wrapped into Martin’s jumper.

“Ugh, Jon, god,” laughed Martin. The front of his cardigan was soaked through now.

“Your fault,” Jon shot back, pushing himself up and kissing Martin thoroughly, tugging at his bottom lip and pushing his gross wet hands into Martin’s curls. A static buzzing filled the air but it couldn’t combat the slow warm wine fuzz and the languid sensation of Jon’s mouth, warm and insistent. It was becoming quickly obvious that Jon, Jonathan lightweight Sims got  _ very _ cuddly with just a little drink in him, and Martin could find no reason to argue with that. He drank in the sight of Jon’s kiss-swollen mouth, redder than usual, and chased it happily. His own lips felt bruised by now, unused to even a fraction of this much attention.

“Come to bed?” he asked without thinking.

Jon blanched, pulling sharply back. “Uh.”

Martin’s face burned. Shit. “N-no, I didn’t mean like that. I know you don’t. It’s okay. I meant, um,” he paused, steadying himself with a deep breath, and took some comfort in the fact that Jon’s visible discomfort had already lapsed, as he patiently waited for Martin to finish. Jon  _ trusted _ him.

“I wasn’t asking for sex,” he clarified. “It’s just, you’ve gotten my shirt all wet and the rest of my clothes are upstairs, and while we’re up there I thought, I’d really like to lay down and hold you and, um, keep kissing you. If that’s okay.”

Jon regarded him  _ so _ warmly, backlit by a soft green glow and slightly distorted air, a hissing quality that Martin couldn’t place his finger on but he was getting used to. It was a little unnerving to experience the presence of something as sinister as the Beholding turned into soft affection, but, it was just  _ Jon _ , and Martin couldn’t really hold onto any fear when Jon was like this.

“Okay,” Jon agreed, drying off his hands and then taking Martin’s hand again. Martin followed him up the stairs and into bed, a parody of barely twenty hours earlier when Jon had barely been convinced that they could share the space.

It had been a  _ day _ , a long and, yes lovely for many reasons but also an exhausting one, and once Martin was horizontal and felt the wine rush back to his head he realized how tired he really was. The cabin was colder upstairs, away from the fireplace, and with Jon shivering Martin pulled all the comforters tighter around them both. Jon was clearly more awake than him, and Martin tried not to think about the Eye feeding him that energy. On the plus side, he could lay with his eyes closed and arms around the archivist’s waist, and Jon did most of the work of kissing him for a bit. Eventually he settled, curling up with his head on Martin’s chest, and Martin was pretty sure Jon was listening to his heartbeat, which was very cute of him.

“You okay?” Jon asked after some time.

“Hm, sure,” he murmured back, then thought honestly. “I don’t know, really. It’s all been a lot.” Jon hummed in agreement, reaching across Martin’s chest then to clasp his hand. “You?”

“Yeah,” Jon said quietly. After a long minute, he added, “I’m scared, Martin.”

Blooming hurt broke through Martin’s chest at that, and he tightened his arms around Jon, like holding him more securely would protect either of them from… from whatever was coming.

“Me too. I-I’m glad to be with you, at least.”

Jon raised his head, watching Martin in that way that alerted every nerve of his body that he was under a spotlight, and then Jon kissed him, without any heat to it. Reached across Martin to click off the nightstand lamp, and settled into Martin’s chest again. Felt the fabric of shirts and blankets shifting, a soft rustle, and Jon’s steady breathing against Martin’s heart.

“I am too, Martin.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- I know nothing about pairing wines with food. I looked up what wine would go well with palak paneer and Google told me chardonnay. We’re also going to pretend you can just buy wine in a tiny Highland grocery store. Don’t @ me I’m American  
> \- Uhhhh. Love Georgie. Adore her. But yeah when she kinda outed Jon to everyone, that one hurt a lot. It felt important to acknowledge that.  
> \- Jon being good at cooking is completely self indulgent. I 100% don’t believe he actually can in canon but its my fic and I’ll write what I want.  
> \- If you liked this let me know pls!! Yall dont even know how much your comments mean to me ily <3


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